Birds and Bees
by Steamboat Duck
Summary: Life goes on, and it feels like you can fight it, overcome it. And then, a small thing appears. Something like a realization that Sherlock is a virgin. Completely...untouched. And everything goes to hell. virgin!Sherlock/John
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: This is a translation of a beautiful fic by Treggie Di. I'm just a translater, and my native language is russian, so if you see some grammar fails, or speech errors - let me know, my only beta is Google Translate._**

**_And review, please - I will translate your thoughts and words to the author. Feedback is highly appreciated! =)_**

Birds and bees. Pestles and stamens. So, who was supposed to have this talk with Sherlock? Was it mysterious Mummy, who continues to invite Sherlock to dinner, but never calls, never visits, and always operates through Mycroft?  
Unlikely.  
Or was it Mr. Holmes, who is not even mentioned by both of the brothers?  
Extremely doubtful.  
Mycroft?  
John frowns. Now matter how much Mycroft cares, his job is more like checking all the Sherlock's potential partners for sexually transmitted diseases, not to simply explain what is what.  
It's not that Sherlock doesn't know about sex. He probably studied it...theoretically. He's possibly read different studies. Maybe he can even write a thesis on the subject of coitus.  
Sherlock. The one, who instead of "ass", childishly says "backside".  
Sherlock, who uses the riding crop only on dead bodies.  
The Virgin Sherlock.  
Huh. Birds and bees. Pestles and stamens.  
Pestles and pestles. That is fine too, nowdays.  
Yeah.  
Sherlock comes into the kitchen, and rises an eyebrow.  
- John? I remember, about an hour ago, you promised me tea.  
- I got back from work only ten minutes ago.  
- So what's about tea?  
- Make it yourself, - grumbles John, washing the cups. Boiling the kettle. Adding milk.  
He must take care of Sherlock. God knows why, but it's him, who must keep doing it. Taking care of scampish Sherlock, who forgets to eat, doesn't know about the Solar system, and...  
Never slept with anyone.  
John feels responsibility. He must talk with Sherlock; birds and bees, it shouldn't be too hard.  
John decides that tea is enough for now.

It is all because of Irene Adler. Even when John had met her the first time, he felt she will bring nothing but trouble. Naked woman, completely naked! It's worth considering who is more sociopathic of these two - Sherlock, who appeared in nothing but a sheet in a palace, or this lady, attacking men whith a whip.  
Huh. Sherlock and the sheet. This is, without a doubt, a sucker punch. "In the sofa's right corner - striking tandem Sherlock&Sheet, in the left corner - John Watson! Fight! And immediately - K.O.! Ten! Nine! Eight..."  
"Are you wearing any pants?", - said John back then. He should not have said it. He sholdn't have even let himself think in this direction. The sight of Sherlock, shaggy and scowling, wrapped in a sheet in the middle of royal glory, replaced all the smaller fantasies from John's head (including the one about an ashtray).  
"No", - Sherlock answered.  
"Three...Two...One. John Watson defeated!"  
John Watson had been defeated a long time ago. But it became harder lately. At first the sheet. Then naked Adler, hitting on Sherlock. And Sherlock himself - frozen, not knowing where to put his hands. He was not comfortable, and John sensed it right away. Sensed it really strong, and interfered immediately.  
"Would you like to wear something?"  
Adler, obviously did not. Spoiled woman. Cruel. And stupid, on top of all.  
"Are you jealous?" - she asked once. And added: "You're a great couple."  
Very stupid woman, indeed.

- John.  
- Mm-hm.  
- John.  
- Yes, Sherlock?  
- John.  
Sigh. Be patient. Close laptop.  
- I'm attentively listening to you.  
- But not looking.  
- What?  
- You're listening, but not looking. Tell me, is it comfortable to talk with someone, without looking at them?  
Clench teeth.  
- You do it all the time.  
Sherlock lays on the sofa, his impossibly long legs stretched. He watches the ceiling thoughtfully. John prefers a floor. Not so tiring for his neck.  
- You've always looked at me, when I called before, - says Sherlock. He sounds casually. Too indifferent. - And now you're answering without taking your eyes off the screen. Or the wall. Or the carpet.  
- Don't know. I didn't notice, - says John tensely. He gets up, comes to the sofa, and looks straight down at Sherlock. - Better now?  
- Yes, - Sherlock answers quietly.  
Calm down, heart. Just calm down.  
- So, what did you want? - who will win in a calmness game? Oh, John knows, without a doubt. He is never able to keep calm. Not with Sherlock. He became disgustingly emotional, though he thought that the war burnt that out of him. But no way! A couple of months living with Sherlock, and John shouts at the chip-and-pin machine, shouts at the laptop, shouts when he lost again in Angry Birds, shouts at Sherlock.  
Shouts at Sherlock.  
Maybe his endurance is nothing. But he has enough self-control not to...not to lean...lower...lips to lips...like this...lightly part them, letting his tongue to touch Sherlock's upper lip...feel his taste, slightly bitter, like tea...  
- John.  
Jon exhales sharply, trying to get back to reality.  
- John. My bow.  
- Your bow, - John repeates obediently, and reddens.- Yeah. I'll look for it. Although, what the hell, Sherlock? I'm not your bloody housekeeper! Find it yourself! Try to remember where you stuck it last time!  
Damn. It is not possible to get redder anymore.  
- John.  
Turn around. Stride across the room. This bloody bow should be somwhere! Ah, there it is. On the window. Yeah, where else should it be?  
- John.  
- Now what?  
- You're strange.  
John closes his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes John envies Sherlock. His ability to delete information from his head. He would prefer not to know some things. But he knows. Ambigous hints, barbs. Irene Adler, at first, followed by Mycroft. Almost in plain text called Sherlock a virgin. John would not give it much attention, after all who should he believe? Adler? This crazy bitch? Or Mycroft, who gave all this "archenemy" bullshit, first time they met?

But Sherlock's reaction...how he looked. How a corner of his mouth twitched: nervously, briefly. And how clumsily he answered, as if he forgot how to snap. As if he could forget something like that - like riding a bicycle.  
It all reminded John of the case, when they came to Sherlock's former classmate the banker. The Blind Banker case.  
He didn't understand at first why Sherlock is so tense. Why he looks so...unusually uncertain. He even sat straight, frozen in uncomfortable pose. He is always sprawled. Even in a palace. Everywhere. But not here; he sat and stared at his classmate like he was afraid. Which was impossible and absolutely absurd. And this classmate seeemed rather nice to John; he smiled, after all. "This is my friend, Dr. John Watson," - said Sherlock, and the man - Sebastian, as he was introduced, - raised his eybrows surprised.  
"Friend?" - he asked with a doubt.  
"Collegaue", - corrected John.  
He still does not know why he said it.  
"Of course", - told the fellow, and smiled again. But Sherlock didn't. He wore a very strange expression on his face. John immediately felt that something isn't right. He wanted to help, to protect Sherlock somehow, and had no idea how. What could he say? Everything would've sounded completely stupid and inappropriate. And after all Sherlock had already put himself together, and asked Sebastian about his flights around the world - twice a month, as he had casually specified.  
"I remember, he used to do that trick back then, in university, - Sebastian shook his head, looking at Sherlock. Looking at him with slight repulsion, like he was a talking cockroach. Though John was sure - if he ever sees a talking cockroach he will look at it with a completely different feeling, and definitely not repulsion. - He would look at you, and tell your life's story..."  
"This was amazing", said John a long time ago. In their first meeting. And a lot of times later.  
"That's not what people usually say", - answered Sherlock. John had not understood back then.  
"We all hated him", - the banker told, adressing John. Like Sherlock was not in the room. And all that - with a smile on his face.  
What a nightmare.  
After they left the bank, John sighed:  
"Flights twice a month. You haven't spoken with a secretary, you said that just to annoy him. So, how did you know?" - he didn't like that Sherlock tried to disguise his talent as a complete coincidence. As if he tried to seem more normal; as if he accepted the rules of a foreign game; like he gave up.  
But he didn't. He blurted out his deductions, surprising John, as always, with his observation skills, his pure logic. Blurted out, and broke off. Squinted at John. A short glance of lightly blue, almost white eyes. An expectation. Expectation of what? A mockery? Questions about the school years?  
"Amazing," - exhaled John. And Sherlock shrugged.  
John haven't recalled it; been and gone. But he did, when Sherlock had been called a virgin, and wore the same strange expression on his face. And the truth revealed itself, in it's frightening simplicity. It seems that's how Sherlock should feel himself all the time - seeing clearly, understanding everything instantly. "Elementary". Sherlock is a sociopath. He doesn't get along with his own brother; not to mention flatmates. He isn't capable of a simplest gallantry, almost hostile to girls - just remember how he behaved with Sarah. It is highly unlikely that Sherlock was popular during his school and university years. And now? He spends his evening with another corpse. He never dates and, as John remembers, doesn't even considers the possibility.  
"I'm married to my work".  
Of course. A virgin.  
The Virgin.

Just wondering, until what age male virginity is excusable?  
- The body had been found a couple of hours ago, water washed off all the evidence...  
Deserted riverside, the body, Greg. An ordinary weekend. A long time ago John watched "Fourty-years old virgin". Fourty is a bit too much. But Sherlock is not fourty.  
Sherlock is leaning over the body, studies fingers, reaches into his pocket. He almost pokes his nose into corpse's neck. Hair are rustling in the wind. Curly hair are rustling in the wind. John doesn't let himself say the word "curly". Even think it.  
And what age is not "too much"? Sherlock is obviously a bit late. Maybe it's a pathology already. What if Sherlock remains a virgin forever?  
- So, what can you give me already? - Greg impatiently taps a pencil on the notebook's page.  
It can happen very easy. If Sherlock won't change his attitude - and he won't - and his way of life, with chases, body parts in the kitchen and bachelor flat, he won't even catch a glimpse of a normal woman. And not normal one, like Adler, John won't let close to the detective himself.  
- Let John speak first.  
From the other side, something should be done. Obviously, it's Sherlock's business - when and with whom he sleeps, but...John must take care of Sherlock. To some extent it's John responsibility. He's Sherlock's friend. His only friend. So, who, if not a friend can help in such a sensitive subject?  
- John.  
- Huh? Ah, yeah, just a moment, - John awkwardly lowers himself on one knee before the corpse, like he is going to propose. Examines the neck, wrists, touches the cold skin. Sherlock watches closely. He didn't bother to stand back, and now is sitting near, so near he almost touches John's shoulder.  
It's enough to lean aside, just a bit. Like he lost his balalnce for a moment. Push lightly on the shoulder, falling on his side, feeling the strong hands clasping his waist."Careful" - Sherlock whispers right in the ear. Lips touch the auricle. Goosebumps on the back; it's ticklish, and somehow inappropriately close. Enough to turn your head. Reach out for a kiss. Snuggle closer. Like this...  
- So, what?  
Greg's sharp voice makes John flinch. A corpse is laying before him, cold and indifferent. And, though his eyes are closed, John feels a reproachful look. He mumbles his conclusions, he made from a quick examination, Sherlock frowns - John is even less observant today than usual, and for sure failed some intellectual test again. That doesn't bother John. Nothing bothers him anymore. Except Sherlock's bloody virginity.

It's time to solve the problem. Dreams with the Sheet, shocking, explicit, and arousing, repeat every night. One morning Sherlock casually notes that John started to shout at night again.  
- Nightmares again? - Sherlock asks, frowning anxiously. Tomato-red John mutters:  
- Yeah, nightmares.  
Sherlock frowns deeper, and John hurries away. But a walk through damp London streets doesn't help. Nothing helps. And John decides that it's time to solve the problem.  
Since he found out about Sherlock's virginity...everything became worse than ever. John felt from the beginning that there would be problems. He should've continued to live alone, with his cane and his laptop, drowning in self-pity and contempt - for himself again. Instead, he agreed to the adventure. Insane, unforgivable adventure...to live with someone like Sherlock. With someone so attractive. Attractive inside just as outside.  
"Could be dangerous", - Sherlock told him, and John nodded. Accepted the rules. "Could be dangerous". No way in hell it refers to the rooftop chases and explosions at the pool. No way in hell.  
"I'm married to my work". John doesn't stand a chance. He got it even during that horribly confusing talk in a restuarant. Angelo brought a candle. Otherwise John wouldn't have dared to ask. But the atmosphere...seemed appropriate.  
"While I'm flattered by your interest, you should know..."  
How didn't he die back then? Honestly - he was close to it. So shameful, so awkward. Then the chase started, and there wasn't time for it later.  
All the life with Sherlock is like that. A moment of confusion, when Sherlock is too close, when he asks to get a phone from his trouses, when his dressing gown opens, when he is wrapped in a sheet, when he is snuggling in a cab, high on drugs of this Adler bitch...And then again, chases, quarrels about the milk, wall shooting, a head in a fridge, a corpse on the river bank, meetings with Mycroft, grumbling of Mrs. Hudson...Life goes on, and it feels like you can fight it, overcome it.  
And then appeares a small thing. Something like a realization that Sherlock is a virgin.  
Completely...untouched.  
And everything goes to hell.  
John can not keep fighting himself. Walking on the damp streets too. He must arrange full sex for Sherlock. Yes. First of all it will distract Sherlock from complete nonsense like the case of Bluebell the Rabbit. And it will distract John too. From some very explicit thoughts.  
How he wants to be the first one, the most empathetic, the most talented Sherlock's lover. John does not have a chance to be "the most" very often, but Sherlock would have nothing to compare! He would be stunned by unusual caresses. He would be responsive and timid, the way everyone is during their first time. He would not only lose his virginity, he will gain the experince that will change all his life.  
Make him scream from pleasure. Make him squirm, and scream, and beg...yes. To make his eyes roll, and make his breathing heavy, and make him buck his hips, so impatient: "Come on, John!". To make him come so forcefully, he wouldn't have any power left to clean himself. To make him...  
What is the point? John will never do it with Sherlock; he would never have courage even for a kiss. He remembers very well, how cruel Sherlock is to people who are in love with him. John doesn't want to become the second Molly.  
For Sherlock he hires a prostitute. 


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N Okay, hello again! This chapter wasn't edited properly, but I'm almost dead of rereading, so if there will be some stupid mistakes - please forgive me, that would be fixed in a day. And again - review, please!**_

Of course, everything should've been done properly, with a nice girl. Except, no nice girl would be able to endure Sherlock even for five minutes. She isn't paid for it.  
And for the first time a professional is needed. The one who won't laugh. Won't show any disappoinment. The one who knows how and in what order everything should be done. A prostitute is almost like a doctor - no need to be ashamed, she'd seen everything already. John comforts himself with this thoughts, sitting in a cafee not far from home. He tries not to think how Sherlock will react, and what John will say when he will return to Baker street. Tries not to think about what he should do, if it just won't work with Sherlock. And he tries even harder not to think about that it's probably working right now. John sits in a cafee till late evening, then goes home.  
- Sherlock? - John calls anxiously, going upstairs. He hopes the girl has left already. He hopes.  
Sherlock sits in his armchair. Lights are off. Air smells of sigarettes.  
- You've been smoking?  
Of course. Smoking after sex.  
Sherlock is silent, and it's strange. John lights a lamp on the table, Sherlock pulls the gun out from his dressing gown, and shoots it.  
- So what does that mean? - says John calmly, his hand are not shaking. Sherlock is a good shot, and it doesn't matter that John was standing very close to the lamp. It was not very beautiful anyway.  
He has a craving to take the gun from Sherlock and put it in his mouth. Let him come to his senses a bit. Make him fear for his life, if only for a second. "Ah, what am I thinking?" - John frowns. As if he will.  
- Flattered by your thought, - says Sherlock plainly. John recognises the tone: the same one Sherlock uses when talking to Mycroft. And the same words. No, he is absolutely not flattered.- It was a brilliant idea: to invite a prostitute here. Really brilliant, even for your brains.  
John squeeses his fists, but Sherlock doesn't see it - it's too dark in the room. John would like to switch on a thousand of lights. To look Sherlock in the eyes. And maybe hit him really hard.  
- I'm happy you're satisfied.  
- Sorry, I can't join your happiness.  
- Oh, really? And why is that?  
- Don't pretend that you don't know.  
John is too tired of beating around the bush.  
- Look, I just wanted to help. Just to solve the problem in the most convenient way. I thought you would appreciate the practicality. No sentiment - since you hate it so much.  
Sherlock is silent for a long time. John leaves to the kitchen, puts the kettle on, aimlessly stands near the sink, then returns to the room. Sherlock steps towards him. His face is contorted with rage - John had seen that already, but Sherlock wasn't looking at John back then. Like at an enemy. Worse then an enemy.  
- Sherlock...  
- If you think that you have something to do with my personal life...  
- Sherlock...  
- ...and going to continue invading it in future, deciding what do I need...  
- Sherlock...  
- ...or not, thinking that you can buy me...  
- Sherlock...  
- ...whores, simply because I've asked you to make tea a couple of times...  
- Sherlock, please...  
- ...then I think that our views on flatmates' help are too different...  
- Sherlock...  
- ...and you better leave this flat.  
He sees it now: unhealthy paleness, rigidly straight back, pursed lips and colourless eyes. Sherlock is not just outraged; he is humiliated. It was humiliating. That thing John did. It was a big mistake.  
He screwed up everything.  
- Sherlock, I...  
He doesn't listen. As always. Turns around, goes away.  
- Please, let me...  
The violin screams violently and unplesanly. Thank God for not shooting the wall. Or John. That would be unnesessary - John is already feeling fatally wounded.  
Johns comes to the armchair, where Sherlock is seated again, takes the violin and a bow from him. Sherlock clasps his finger on the chair's arms, restrains himself, he can fight; he studied martial arts, not just chemistry. But he won't. Though he will give a look, worse than a punch. John deserves it. At least that's what he is trying to explain.  
- I was wrong. - It's hard to tell something like this. John never liked to apologise. As if there are people who like doing it. - Please, Sherlock, forgive me. It was stupid.  
-Exactly.  
- I don't even know how I've got the idea.  
Sherlock frowns. His face is still distant, as if it's a stranger in front of him. Not John.  
It's unbearable.  
John falls on his knees before the chair. Humiliating; but he humiliated Sherlock too. Let it be the Humiliation Day, with a mark in a calendar. John stands on his knees, puts his arms on Sherlock's knees for balance. Looks up. In a weak light from the kitchen, he can see how wide Sherlock's eyes are. How the pursed lips whitened. The breathing is becoming more rapid, or is he imagining things? Are the pupils dialiting? It's just dark. Pupils are dialiting in the dark.  
- What now? - Sherlock says quietly. His voice sounds almost...frightened?  
It can't be.  
- I want to fix it.  
John whispers for some reason. Pulse is thumping loudly in his ears. Mouth is dry; he is really thirsty. He even won't be able to kiss Sherlock, his lips are dry, so is his tongue, the throat tightened. It's scary. Not the kind of fear like going under the bullets - just fear. The other kind. Almost pleasant one. - Would you let me? - asks John. Sherlock hesitates. He is considering every meaning to this phrase. Or maybe his throat is suddenly tight too. - I want to touch you. Can I? Sherlock nods nervously.  
John lightly squeezes Sherlock's knees, and then moves his hands upper, slowly, carefully. Strokes the legs strongly, sensually, making Sherlock pant. When his palms are covering Sherlock's thighs, his breathing becomes heavier.  
- Just...trust me, okay? - John asks. He would've never asked, if the lights were not out. If Sherlock haven't shot the lamp. He never would've asked, and SHerlock never would've parted his legs a bit more, giving permission. Trusting. John puts his hand on Sherlock's crotch, and exhales relieved. Sherlock is not an iceberg after all, as he seems sometimes; he is not disgusted. Well, his body is definitely pleased with touches. Through fine fabric of the dressing gown, a bulge can be felt clearly, it becomes bigger under John's hand. When John genly squeezes his fingers, Sherlock moans - it's a short, half-strangled moan, and immediately holds his breath, like he is ashamed. John squeezes stronger, moves his hand up and down, and Sherlock throws back his head, facing the ceiling, exposing pale neck. He clutches the armrests, almost tearing the material. When John removes his hand, Sherlock makes a pleading whimper, and immediately shifts his legs in disappointment.  
- No, that's not everything, - soothes John. - I think you should take this off.  
- Why? - Sherlock asks tensly. The question is too stupid, but John doesn't tell it; instead, he says, with a quiet chuckle:  
- For the experiment's order.  
The tone is chosen correctly - Sherlock relaxes a bit. He unties the waistband of his dressing gown, and hesitates for a second before opening it. John bits his tongue painfully, looking at Sherlock lean, strong body, at his long cock. Long, not too wide - fits Sherlock's build. And pubic hair are a bit curly.  
John sits more comfortable, ignoring his own erection. If everything continues going as it is - he will come without touching himself. And, obviously, would have to wash his trouses.  
- John, you... - Sherlock broke off abruptly. John leans to his hand, tormenting the armrest, and lightly kisses spasmodically clenched fingers. Sherlock sighs, sounding shocked. And then - one more time, when John kisses the head of his cock. And after that - just as John dreamt - screams, because John closes his lips around the tip and slowly leans down, until he pokes his nose in curly hair. - Jooohn... - moans Sherlock, his voice surprisingly low, abruptly puts his hand on John's head, then removes it, desperately clutches the armrest again. John caresses the base with his tongue, licks the tip, wet and shiny from the ejaculate, wraps his lips around the cock again, and slides up and down, going faster. His arms are holding Sherlock's hips, to stop him bucking them up so desperately. Sherlock scratches the armrests, screams again, mumbles something incoherent. John is dizzy from Sherlock's smell, from the feeling of hot skin under his fingers, from the salted taste on his tongue. From screams, and sigh, and from his own arousal.  
- John, John, this...I...Ooh!  
With a loud moan Sherlock comes in John's mouth, and then wents limp in the armchair. His hands fall from armrests powerlessly. John wipes his lips, watches Sherlock's naked knees, they are absurdly touching. He doesn't have any courage to rise his eyes, and meet his friend, flatmate, colleague, his partner in a crime of nicking a royal ashtray. With former Sherlock Holmes, who's married to his work.  
But his legs are numb and ache already, especially right one. And it's just stupid to keep sitting like this. John gets up, looks at Sherlock. He is sprawled in the armchair, almost sliding to the floor; eyes are meaningless and blissful. He hardly has any power to return Johon from the sky to earth, by telling him that it was all just an interesting expirement. He has no power even to cover himself, and flaccid cock looks heartwarming and vulnerable. Everything tights inside John in crushing tenderness; he fastens the dressing gown, and then touches Sherlock's lips in a short innocent kiss.  
- Thank you, - Sherlock suddenly says hoarsely, ahd John nods, confused.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N Oh my God, I can't believe I did this! *fans herself with a piece of her university assignment* As usual - review please! It is highly appreciated!**_

Thank you. Sherlock is polite. Maybe he forgets to add "please" ("John, get me my phone", "How about tea?", "A trip to the supermarket is needed", "Where is my bow?", "I need you to do something for me"), but he almays says "thank you" (phone; tea; groceries; bow; to risk his life for another case - but for Sherlock, really).  
Thank you for your service, John. How about a blowjob, John? Where's my blowjob? I need you to do something for me.  
John leaves SHerlock in the darkness of the room, and escapes to his bedroom. The erection has become painful a long time ago. John freezes in the middle of the room, hiding his face in his hands. There's no one to hide from - no one can see him, so why is he so ashamed? So ashamed...  
John fights his belt for a long time, gets rid of shoes, reaches out to unbutton his jeans...  
- John.  
And pulls his hand back sharply, caught red-handed. Slowly turns to the door, trying to make his face look friendly.  
- What is it?  
- Was it your way of apologising? The thing you've done...have you done it only to apologise?  
John wants to ask "Are you insane?", but holds back.  
- Sherlock, people never apologise this way. Even the most guilty ones. I just...I just wanted to do it.  
Shit. To say it out loud was harder than he ever imagined.  
- You... - observant look of blue eyes, - you have fe...  
- I'm not gay! - It bursts before John have time to think. For a couple of seconds they look at each other, then laugh together.  
- Yeah, there is solid evidence, - Sherlock says sarcastically. - You are _obviously_ not gay, even assuming it would be ridiculous.  
- Sorry. I'm really...I'm not...I should've told you. But it seemed to me, that you won't be happy with such a presence. Think that I would molest you...Well that's what happened in the end, - John shrugs apologetically, Sherlock looks at his crotch. Sherlock doesn't have any idea of where is appropriate to look, while talking. John struggles not to touch himself - under intensive gaze, the desire starts burning again. Becomes unbearable.  
- John, - again, that bass, husky tone. - I've thought everything through, and decided...that I want to return your favor.  
- No, - exhales John, his eyes widening. Sherlock wrinkles, displeased.  
- No? This... - he falters, - is because of your incorrect belief in my inexperience in sexual matters? Just so you know, John, I'm not a virgin. I...I've done it before, many times. Just did not thought it was necessary to advertise.  
John manages to contain a smile.  
- Really?  
- Precisely.  
Sherlock steps closer, and John raggedly sighs.  
- So, you...you're not against...for us to...  
- Please, express yourself more accurate, if you want to achive something.  
- Do you want to fuck me?  
Shocked, Sherlock stops. Cheekbones are faintly blushing. John bets, that Sherlock doesn't talk like that even in his thoughts.  
- To fuck me, Sherlock. What do you think?  
It's difficult to talk carelessly, when your ball are already aching from arousal.  
- Affirmative.  
John silently unbuttons his shirt and determinedly trows it somewhere on the floor. Sherlock rises a brow, tracing the flight; when he looks at John again, he has already removed his trouses too - with record speed. John is nervous a bit, when time comes to take off his underwear. Sherlock is not just looking, he is _staring_. It's embarassing. But when the last barrier has been removed, he feels much better - and his erection too.  
Sherlock, with a habitual gesture, trows off the dressing gown; wonderful idea - not to wear any pants! John sobs, when Sherlock determinedly reduces the distance, almost touching. Though, his courage lasts shortly - he stops, dropping his hands, as if he's waiting for insructions. John puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders - the skin there is smooth and delicate. He strokes and rubs, and Sherlock breath is hot in his ear. John's fingers explore Sherlock's back, hugging him - stroking his shoulder blades, his lower back, touching the sides, feeling the firmness of the ribs. Sherlock thoughtfully and in an owner's manner puts his hands on John's ass.  
- Oh, - says John, surprised. Sherlock's palms are warm and rough at his buttocks.  
- Have I done something wrong? - Sherlock asks impertrubably.  
- No, no, it's all right... - mumbles John and kisses Sherlock's collarbone, cursing his small height. - What about moving to bed?  
- Agreed.  
They lie down side by side, formally, like an old married couple, but the next moment John can't bear it anymore: he saddles Sherlock's hips, and starts to kiss his neck, shoulders, chest. When John pinches Sherlock's nipples with both of his hands, he makes a startled cry, arching.  
- What...This is so... - he babbles, confused, and immediately firmly shuts his lips.  
- Not everyone likes it, - notes John, - but it seems you don't mind, do you?  
John circles delicate halos around Sherlock's nipples, and Sherlock makes a muffled cry again, a bit annoyed with the loss of control over his own body. But he has no more power for annoyance left, when John starts rubbing one nipple with his finger, and his other hand wraps Sherlock's cock, once more intensely hard.  
The good thing about virgins - they are turned on so quickly!  
- Yes...like this... - sighs John, when Sherlock bites his lip and closes his eyes - just like in his fantasies. When eyes are closed, the sesations are sharper; but you need to trust your partner, to let go of the situation. And Sherlock trusts. He moans, and bites his poor lips till they bleed. His whole body arches, when John's lips are touching a soft pink nipple, intensly prominent. John's hand is moving, sharply and quickly, up and down, but when Sherlock starts gulping for air, John stops.  
Sherlock opens his eyes and watches, astounded, how John licks his fingers, and then, frowning a bit, puts his hand behind his back. Sherlock's eyes are puzzled at first, and then are full of admiration: it works better than the kisses, better than the touches. John is rarely able to surprise the genius detective; rarely he deserves such delighted looks. John sits down on his own fingers, stretchng himself roughly. He hurries a bit - he waited long enough. Seems that a single touch to his cock - and John will come. But Sherlock doesn't touch, only looks. Maybe, after some time... "Don't be stupid", - he breaks himself off, angrily. He doesn't want to hope in vain. He doesn't want to think about it now. He takes his fingers out, and rises a bit above Sherlock's groin, straining his legs - right one familiarly responds with pain.  
Sherlock watches attentively and cautiously, and John feels that he should somehow warn him, explain what he's going to do, but it would sound ridiculous. So he simply asks:  
- Ready?  
Sherlock licks his lips and nods.  
- But I...I don't completely...I don't know how I...  
- I'll take care of everything, - John quickly interrupts him. He directs Sherlock's cock between his buttocks, slowly sits down on it, closing his eyes in a flood of sensations. John hears Sherlock's hissing, sucking air through his teeth. - Hold on. Don't even think of coming.

It hurts, but it's a good kind of hurt. John moans, when Sherlock's cock is completely inside him. It's so good. So...right. He had a similar feelilng, when he first met Sherlock. He thought then: "Finally", and was surprised by his thoughts. Finally what?  
John is probably too heavy for the riding, and his leg hurts more and more, but who cares? The pleasure is so sharp, so powewrful, that it becomes a revelation. John thinks that he's never felt anything like this. And he can bet - Sherlock feels the same. He moans shortly, and John continuously, and their moans merge into the general melody. At some point, John feels that he can't hold a second more, and shudders with his whole body, staining himself and Sherlock with his sperm. Sweet heaviness spreads in his abdomen, anus contracting, and Sherlock moans with pleasure. He comes a second later.  
John doesn't have any power left for pillow talk. He lies down near Sherlock, and wishes that somebody would come and take him to the shower bridal-style. Sherlock turns a couple of times, then stops, pressing his forehead to John's back. John falls asleep, and doesn't dream at all.

_**A/N Next time - the morning after!**_


End file.
